Missing Elements
by theheartofadetective
Summary: There's always something that Sherlock misses, and this time around it's the important things.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock walked into the morgue with his best companion, John Watson, following behind. Sherlock had a big smile on his face as he was figuring he would need to coax Molly to get him what he needed. Though, that wasn't too much of a challenge for the great consulting detective.

"Sherlock, I've been trying to tell you- if you would just listen…"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, a perplexed look on his face. He turned around to look at John.

"I was just talking to Mike Stamford, and he said that Molly called out sick today," John explained, watching Sherlock's expression turn from confused to annoyed. Sherlock was like a child, he wanted something when he wanted it, and would often get frustrated if his demands were not met right immediately.

"Molly does not take her sick days."

"Everyone gets sick sometimes, Sherlock," John said, rolling his eyes. "Not everyone wishes to sacrifice their health for their work; that's just you."

"She comes into work even when she isn't feeling well," he said, narrowing his eyes as he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and sent a quick text. "I need her here."

John smirked at Sherlock's discomfort because he knew that Sherlock dreaded the thought of working with anyone else. "I guess you'll just have to find another pathologist to help you out today," he said crossing his arms as the grin widened. Then he added with a chuckle, "if any of them are willing to put up-_work-_ with you," he said, choking a bit as Sherlock was glaring at him when he heard the last part of John's sentence.

Sherlock scoffed: "If I worked with anyone else, I'd be telling them how to do their job. This is why I work with Molly; she is one of the best in her field."

"Well, I guess that's just too bad then," John said smugly.

"No, actually," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, his eyes skimming over his phone, "I'll just ask her to come in."

"Sherlock…" John started, looking at him sternly.

"Well, she isn't answering my text, so I'll just have to go over there and see," he said, a determined smile on his face as he tucked his phone back into his pocket and popped up his coat collar.

"_Or_ you could leave her be for once, and let her get some rest."

"Come on now, John, priorities! There's a murderer out there just waiting to be caught and all you can think of is a pathologist with a cold?"

John ran a hand down his face and shook his head as he watched the detective swiftly exit the morgue, resolute in bringing Molly back here.

* * *

Molly bit her lip as she was pressed up close against him. "I've never done this before."

"What? Never called out of work for fun?" he said, pressing his forehead to hers.

"Well, no, not really. I never call out, actually," she said as she gave a shy smile.

He gave her a peck on the lips, pressing his body closer as she gently tugged on the lapels of his shirt. "Well, I'm sure it's much better than some tall, odd-looking bloke giving you a hard time."

"Andrew!" she squeaked. "He's not- he's just… very focused on his work that he rarely thinks about anything else."

"So that excuses him being an arse to you?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

She was biting her lip, "well, no, but-"

She was interrupted by a knock at the door. She looked at the door quizzically as she was not expecting anyone and walked up to it, peering through the peephole.

"Sherlock?" Molly said.

"Yes, Molly. Has your condition affected your memory or your eyesight?" he asked sarcastically, annoyance clear in his voice.

_Lovely, _Molly thought as she opened the door.

She went to step outside the door to talk to Sherlock, but he stepped in before she had the chance and began looking her over, deducing her. She could see it clear in his eyes.

She was still in her pyjamas but looked very much healthy, and very much happy. Sherlock had heard the comment about himself and so when his eyes went to Andrew, they narrowed and he was looking more irritated.

Molly cringed, introductions were definitely not something she was good at, but she felt uncomfortable. She wasn't going to let Sherlock pretend Andrew didn't exist though, like he would try to do. "This is uhm- this is Andrew, he's my…" she trailed off, but they didn't have a word for what they were yet; they hadn't been seeing each other for very long.

Andrew stepped up close to Sherlock and stuck his hand out, "boyfriend."

Sherlock looked down at his hand, but did not move his own to return the gesture. After a second, he looked back up to Andrew, eyes still narrowed. "From prior discussions with Molly, I know she does not consider a man she's been on a date with two- no, three- times to be her boyfriend."

Molly blushed; she should've seen that coming.

Andrew spoke up again, dropping his hand. "I don't see her objecting, mate," he said coolly, a smug smirk on his face.

Molly cleared her throat; this was getting quite uncomfortable very fast. "So uhm, Sherlock, what do you need?" She cringed internally at the repetitive phrase. It was the same one she asked when she had to help Sherlock; when she had to risk everything to help him fake his death, make him disappear.

Not looking away from the man he answered Molly's question. "I need you at the morgue; an intriguing case has come about and I need something confirmed."

"Sherlock, I called out of work…" she said, her voice becoming small.

"You called out _sick."_

"Yes, well, there are, er, other pathologists in the lab that could help you," she suggested.

"Don't play stupid, Molly. You know I don't work with any pathologist but yourself."

Molly didn't know whether to smile at the fact that Sherlock came halfway across the city because he was determined to solely work with her, or to be annoyed that he was going to drag her away from the pleasant morning. She was never one to fight with Sherlock though; of course she was going to comply.

She stared at Sherlock for a few moments too long before letting out a small sigh, looking down at the floor. "Could you uhm- could I have a minute then?"

"I'll get a cab," he said, sweeping out of the door quickly, giving Andrew another look before he made his exit.

When he was out of sight, she turned her eyes away from Andrew as she began walking towards her bedroom, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Andrew, I need to go in, he needs my help."

She was expecting him to leave. Sherlock was an ass, and often ruined her chances with another man, but it was usually before she had even gone on the date, making her stay late at work and unintentionally leave them hanging. Instead there were hands on her shoulders and she turned around to look at him.

"It's okay," he said, a bright smile on his face. "You can make it up to me." A small smile spread across Molly's face as he continued. "Another date tomorrow night?"

"That sounds wonderful," Molly replied. She leaned in to give him a peck on the lips when the moment was interrupted by a loud horn, probably from the cab.

* * *

Molly was quiet in the cab, leaning against the window on her side. She was irritated; she wanted to stay with Andrew. They were starting to get to know each other, and he was lovely, not to mention good in bed. And as she recalled the previous lovely night she spent with him, a smile spread across her face.

There was another big reason that she liked Andrew though, one she didn't want to admit to herself. She turned her head a bit and stared at the man that consumed her thoughts so much.

Andrew distracted her from the idea of a "chance" with Sherlock. Andrew was enough to make her forget, and maybe she would be able to move on. If saving a man's life didn't make him want you- well, then Molly was convinced that nothing could. She was tired of being a pushover, of giving up so much for Sherlock with nothing in return. She didn't even know why she agreed to come into the morgue. She should have just told him no, but of course she couldn't.

She didn't realise she was still staring at him, or the heavy sigh she let out.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, looking to her.

She looked down at her fidgeting hands, giving an awkward smile. "Uh, no- I'm fine."

* * *

John rolled his eyes as he looked to the annoying consulting detective and the pathologist that followed him in.

"Really, Sherlock?" he said, and then turned to Molly. "Hey," he said, giving her a sympathetic smile.

"Hey, John," she smiled back. She knew by the look on John's face that there had been a conversation before Sherlock left the morgue to fetch her. John was always kind and caring; she wished she knew him better because she knew they would be wonderful friends.

"I need to see Mr Webber," Sherlock said, ignoring John and looking to her.

"Right," she noted, putting on her lab coat as she tried not to let out a huff.

She pulled out the body, the autopsy had already been done and Sherlock walked over to the slab, taking one look at him.

"Just as I thought," Sherlock said, "poison. The entrance would is between the webs of his fingers. Call Lestrade, John. Tell him to bring in the brother."

Molly's mouth dropped as she realised that the five seconds of looking at the body was what Sherlock had brought her halfway across the city for.

John cringed as he looked over to Molly and then shrugged. If it were anyone else, especially him, John would have thought Molly would blow up at Sherlock, but she was always selfless when it came to anyone, especially Sherlock Holmes. He wished he could encourage her to tell him to stuff it.

She closed her mouth and cleared her throat, looking to Sherlock.

"It's a good thing that doctor was there to see you at your flat, Molly… Aaron, was it?" Sherlock blurted out. "You're looking a little pale."

"Andrew," she corrected, trying to suppress her annoyance. Sherlock knew his name, he was just being irritating.

John looked over in surprise as he realised why Molly had called out, recalling seeing a few times when the doctor had been flirting with her; she hadn't looked sick anyway but John let out a quiet chuckle.

"Yes," Sherlock said absent-mindedly, not really listening as he was about to step out of the morgue when John spoke up now.

"Sherlock," John said as the man looked over to him. "Isn't there something else you want to say to Molly for for troubling her to come all the way down here?" He really did have to treat him like a child.

He shrugged. "What else is there to say?"

"A thank you, probably," Molly said, keeping her façade calm, but she was irritated.

"Thank you, Dr Hooper," he said, nodding and walked out the door.

"I'm sorry that he's such an arse, Molly," John said, and she gave a small smile of forgiveness as he walked out the door, trying to catch up with Sherlock as his mobile dialled Lestrade.

* * *

As they strolled back into 221B John spoke up. "You didn't need to be a prick about it, Sherlock."

"Molly was ignoring her responsibilities, John," he said, walking over to his chair and sitting down in it.

"She also is not obligated to drop everything for _you,_ Sherlock. She has in the past and you're still inconsiderate of her."

"Molly shows… affection for me, and I requested that she be the only pathologist to help me. That should be sufficient enough to satisfy her."

"What the hell is wrong with you? Do you use everyone whom you come in close contact with? You've always taken advantage of her."

"I was simply giving her a notion to buck up from her cold," Sherlock swatted away John's sadly correct words, pretending to disregard them.

"You don't get it, Sherlock, about the doctor, do you?"

"What?"

"She's shagging him."

Sherlock scoffed at the word in disgust and it made John smirk a bit. "Yes, John, I realise, I'm not thick."

John let out a loud chuckle at that.

"Sorry?" Sherlock said, looking to him and narrowing his eyes.

"Nothing, Sherlock," he said, rolling his eyes. "Forget I said anything," he said, walking over and opening up his laptop to type up the solved case.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hey! So I hope you like this, I've taken a bit of a different approach than last time; trying to change things up a bit! I've made the chapters a bit shorter so that I can get more feedback. Enjoy! -Michelle**

Molly gave a happy sigh as she closed her last file of the day. Tonight was her date with Andrew to make up for Sherlock's rude interruption, and tomorrow she would have the day off, so she didn't have to worry about the same incident occurring again.

She did her routine clean-up and a bright smile flashed across her face as Andrew walked through the door of the morgue.

"Hey!" she beamed, walking over to him to give him a hug.

He pulled back from her and gave her a bright smile, taking something out from behind his back. He presented to her a pink rose and her smile lit up brighter than she thought it could have. "Thank you!" she said, kissing his cheek.

"I'm glad you like it," he smiled back. "And how are you feeling this evening? Ready for our date?"

"Yes, I'm great," she said, smelling the rose. "Glad works over."

Molly hurried over and put on her scarf and coat, ready to leave, but the doors opened again and another man walked through.

"Molly! Good, I've caught you before you've left," he smiled at her, disregarding Andrew. He shook a biohazard bag as he walked towards her. "I need your help."

Molly tried her best not to groan. Why did this have to be happening to her? Couldn't she have some peace? Sherlock had made it clear that he didn't want her, but now all of a sudden she's dating a man and she's happy about it, and he's making it more difficult for her. Of course, it was for his work, it was always for his work, but it was so frustrating.

"My shift ended," she started, "and I'm about to leave… I've got plans…"

"I'm sure you could spare a little more time, Molly? It's rather important."

This was too much; she told herself she was tired of him pushing things as he always did, always persuading her to do what she wants. She opened her mouth to protest, but Andrew spoke up, smiling at Sherlock. "As long as you can give her back to me at a decent time."

Sherlock was not amused as he looked over to Andrew but gave a slight nod, trying not to narrow his eyes. "Right…"

Then Andrew turned to Molly, "And you have tomorrow off, so we can put our date off a little longer. Give me a call when you're done?"

"Uh…" he was perfect, way too perfect. He should've left pissed by now, but he looked at her just as genuinely as he had before. "Yeah, actually, that works then…"

Sherlock was over to a microscope already looking at evidence, trying to ignore that Andrew was still there, but Molly had seemed to have forgotten that Sherlock was there when Andrew's thumb gently caressed over her tiny pouted lip. "We have plenty of time to get to know each other. Another hour or two won't ruin anything," he replied.

She groaned. "I know; I've just been looking forward to this all day."

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he could see the two of them out of the corner of his eyes. He kept his face to his microscope but was not focused on what the lens was showing. When Andrew's hand came up to touch Molly's gentle face, Sherlock felt a twitch of annoyance. He had things to get done, a case to solve; he didn't need more time wasted. Didn't Molly want to leave as soon as possible anyway? Sherlock ignored Andrew's kindness and generosity and was determined that the reason he didn't like him was only because he was distracting Molly.

Andrew leaned down to kiss her, and for a moment she was losing herself in it, before that familiar, lovely voice interrupted.

"Molly, I need you to run a screen on this," he said, holding up a vial as he kept his eyes glued to the microscope.

Molly barely spoke for the first twenty minutes while she was helping him, sincerely annoyed that he was doing this again; who did he think he was? Well, Sherlock Holmes, great consulting detective that could only focus on one thing and never considered other's feelings.

The steam began to settle though as she became focused on her work, and the gorgeous man in her lab. She loved it, and she did love watching Sherlock's mind work as he rambled on to her while looking at the microscope.

She reached over to grab something as her eyes were on her own microscope and almost flinched at the warmth that was touching her hand. She looked over to see that Sherlock had reached for something at the same time, his warm hand still on hers.

She finally pulled her hand away from under his, blushing as Sherlock handed her what she needed. "Sorry," she said with a shy smile, looking back to her microscope.

Sherlock liked the feel of her hand against his; her skin was soft, her hands small and fragile.

She sat in her chair now as Sherlock was finishing up what she needed to do. He expected her to leave now that she had completed what he asked of her, but she stayed, not even thinking about that option really. It didn't take him long before he realised that she didn't mind being there now, she wanted to be as her doe eyes examined his work with wonder, contemplating the ideas running through his head. Another questions ran across her mind though as she watched him work.

"So Sherlock," she began, swinging her feet a bit in nervousness, "did you really need me the other day just to check an entrance wound for poison?"

"Yes," he replied, making it sound like the obvious answer.

"Well, I mean, you could have gotten anyone to pull a body out for you…"

"I don't work well with others, Molly," he mumbled, looking between some notes and his microscope.

"I know, but I was at home…"

"And not sick," he remarked.

She frowned; he had a point about that, but that was not the point she was trying to make initially. She just dropped the conversation, looking down at her hands.

"Molly?" he finally spoke up.

"Yes?"

"Thank you, for the other day and today."

She gave a small smile, "you're welcome." She was about to say anytime, but that phrase was fading from her vocabulary with him since he liked to take advantage of that.

She hopped off of her bench to gather up her things, putting back on her coat and scarf, and then walked over to grab her purse that was near Sherlock.

As he was finished cleaning up his things, he turned to her, an odd look on his face, a bit sad even. "Molly."

"Yes?" she turned, hoping to god he wasn't going to ask her to do something else.

"Is it going to be this much effort now to get you to assist me?"

She was trying her best not to let her mouth drop open. "You mean since I'm seeing someone? Since I have a life outside of work? I had one before, Sherlock…" she tried to say defensively.

"Not that much of one," he said matter-of-factly. "You've always come when I've asked you for something, but it seems more difficult now; tedious…" he trailed off.

_Of all the miserable… is he kidding right now?_ She screamed in her head. "I… I have to go, Sherlock." She wasn't having this conversation anymore.

She huffed as she pushed her way out of the morgue and left Sherlock there. Was he being serious? Was she too soft? No, that was it. She's done so much for him, and he doesn't even realise what he's doing half the time, or just doesn't care. He's so selfish; all he cares about are his cases and no other person. Not everything revolves around him. "Ugh_._" Molly groaned as she made her way to meet Andrew. At least that was something to look forward to.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Short chapter! **

Sherlock entered 221B to find John, who had just come back from his date. He was quite content as he flipped through the pages of the paper and sipped on some tea.

He looked up to Sherlock who walked over to his violin, picking it up and beginning to play something immediately. Obviously he was thinking, but what could he have gotten himself into the few hours that John was apart from him.

Sherlock was lost in his thoughts as he let a new combination of sound flow through his fingers and out through the instrument. Why was it such a difficult thing to grasp that he only worked with Molly? It had always been this way; there had never been the problem. She was the one being difficult here, not him. Or that's how he justified it.

He was annoyed at the notion that he _wanted_ her around more, merely for help with this new case. She was always there right when he needed her, and now it was tiring to try and fight her away from this doctor; he preferred it much better when she dated infrequently. She had such a brilliant mind and she was wasting it on _sentiment_. Wasting it on content that shouldn't matter- he loved her pathology work, admired it really, but would never say a word of it.

"Sherlock?" John said after a few moments of sitting in silence.

Sherlock momentarily stopped his playing as he listened, but did not turn to him. "Everything alright?"

"Confusion at the morgue," Sherlock replied, sitting down in his chair with his violin and bow still in his hands.

"With… Molly?"

"Yes, John," he replied, keeping his eyes intent on the bow as he spoke. He knew before the conversation had even started that John was blindly not going to see his argument. "She doesn't have her priorities straight."

John humoured him momentarily, letting out a sigh. "Right, because…?"

"She has been awfully difficult these past few days when I have needed her assistance."

"Because she has a boyfriend and does not feel as though she needs to come at your every beckoning call?"

"John, it's her job."

"No, it's her job to work her hours and do what the hospital asks of her. Lestrade isn't even supposed to give you as many cases as he does, but you do them anyway. You technically disrupt what is supposed to be her job. She does extra for you whenever you request, and now you're whining because you have to work to get her attention rather than just always having it?"

"It is very inconvenient that this doctor she's seeing is getting in the way. From her past, I still think she should avoid any future attempt at a relationship."

John looked at him sceptically, sitting back further in his chair. "And is there any reason she should stay away from him? Is there something wrong with him?"

"He is new at the hospital and already getting involved personally with the staff; that does not seem very professional to me."

"But is there anything wrong with him? Does he seem to make Molly happy?"

"That hardly is conducive to what I'm saying."

"So you just have a problem with him shagging her then, because it's Molly?" he grinned, knowing how Sherlock would react to that.

"John, please," he shifted in his seat as he thought of the phrase, not liking it at all.

"Are you jealous, Sherlock?" he questioned.

He waved his hand. "I've no reason to be," he said, his eyes drifting to somewhere else in the room, away from John. "That is a ridiculous notion. Do think of who you're talking to."

"You're human, Sherlock. Humans are capable of feelings for others."

Sherlock began to play his violin again before John could even finish his sentence, composing something that sounded quite distraught. It was preposterous for John to even think that Sherlock had interest in Molly Hooper, or anyone at all for that matter. He had always been like this; why was he questioning his motives now? He always interrupted Molly's petty attempts at dating, but this time it was personal since he directly interfered and took a personal feeling of angst toward the man she was seeing.

* * *

Molly sat across from Andrew, attempting to enjoy the night that she could finally begin. She twisted her pasta in her fork distractedly, not eating much. She was not as excited as she would have been without the interruption.

"Something wrong, Molly?" Andrew asked.

She looked up at him. "What? No- oh god, no; I'm glad to be out of work, just tired" she said, putting on a small smile.

"Something he said bothering you?" he asked. Boy did he catch on quick.

"A little…" she began, her eyes back down on her pasta again as she spoke. "He just thinks it's inappropriate that I have a life outside of work." She stabbed her fork into her pasta a little more forcefully than she had meant to.

"Seems like he's jealous if you ask me," Andrew shrugged.

Molly let out a sarcastic chuckle at that. "Yeah, right. Sherlock has never had any interest in me, or anyone. You can trust me on that one." She realised she let out a sigh as she thought of this, but then shot her head up to look at Andrew again. "But it doesn't matter really," she said with a smile. "I'm seeing someone already," she said, putting her hand on top of his.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock walked into the lab to find Molly patching up the man she had just done an autopsy on. She was singing as she didn't realise that Sherlock was even there and he watched her.

After a long minute she turned around and jumped, her singing stopped dead. "I'm, uhm," she said, looking away from him, "what're you doing here, Sherlock?" She scratched the back of her head, praying he hadn't been there for more than a few seconds.

"Needed to look at something," Sherlock said, not acknowledging her embarrassing moment and going over to the work bench.

He was sitting there for a moment, quiet, and she watched him as he worked. She couldn't help but think of what Andrew was saying, even though it was entirely impossible. The concept of Sherlock being jealous, especially over herself… that was ridiculous. Why wouldn't he have ever said something if he was interested? Because he wasn't… He had been acting odd, but this was just how he was; everything revolved around a case and if anything was in the way it was regarded as menial.

She was biting her lip, so lost in the ideas running through her mind that she didn't realise she had been watching him for so long.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked with his eyes intent on the microscope.

"What? Oh, no, I uhm…" she began, "do you need help with anything?

"No," he replied immediately, still not looking up to her.

"Alright, if you need anything at all…"

"Thank you," he replied quickly.

"Anytime," she smiled.

"Interesting…" Sherlock remarked matter-of-factly, "seeing as how that statement does not hold true."

"Sorry?" Molly said, looking to him.

"It has been brought to my attention that I have been pestering you for too much. I should not expect you to be able to do something for a case _anytime._" He sniffed.

She was quiet for a minute before she spoke up again. "Well, Sherlock… I just, you can't expect me to drop everything for you every time…" she crossed her arms now. "You take advantage of my kindness," she said so quietly Sherlock almost didn't hear her.

"Sorry?" he asked now, knowing what she said, but not quite expecting it from her.

"You take advantage of me, Sherlock, _all the time_. Of the access I have here. You don't appreciate me, and you aren't nice because I'm your friend; you're not even polite. It's only when you want something, and well- it's, it's rude."

He was quiet for a moment, taking in her words. She was more right than he was willing to admit. "This doctor is meddling with your work ethic," he countered.

She sighed. "Sherlock, why do you have such a problem with Andrew?"

"He gets in the way."

"Why did you make a huge deal of dragging me across London, and then making me stay late when John usually helps you with the biohazard materials?"

"Molly, we've discussed this."

"No," there was something else, there had to be. She didn't even want to say what she was thinking, but she didn't need to because he already knew what it was. He found that this conversation was becoming repetitive, why couldn't people give up this notion? Was it that difficult for ordinary people to comprehend?

Sherlock stood up and walked over to Molly, staring into her eyes. He was close to her, encompassing her as she was pressed up against the counter, her gaze enwrapped in his. His eyes were wild and frantic; she was scanning his face, trying to figure out what he was thinking.

His eyes darted between her mouth and her eyes as he tried to figure out what to say. He had a feeling in his stomach that he had not felt before, and his mind a bit unsteady at the closeness he felt towards Molly. Her warmth radiated against him as he made himself closer, trying not to lose his angry composure. He was already showing weakness, and he could not tolerate that for himself.

"John has alluded to the same thing as you and if you are thinking the same preposterous idea that he is, you should dismiss the thought because it is inaccurate. I am married to my work; I have no interest." He immediately felt the regret of the words as they left his lips; he knew he was hurting her purposely, trying to protect himself.

Molly tried her best not to let tears fill, but her eyes glossed over. "I know, Sherlock," she said strongly, confidently, not turning her eyes from his gaze. She thought she would be more prepared for the words she had known would eventually cross her path since it was nothing less than expectation, but they hurt. She refused to let him see it as she blinked back the tears, denying letting him see vulnerability. "I've always known. You don't care about anyone but yourself anyway. You've never cared if it was inconveniencing me to come in here, and you've certainly never cared about my feelings."

His stance became less defensive when his shoulders relaxed, and his eyes were soft, but his voice was filled with confusion. "You do well in your field, Molly, and you're essential to my cases," Sherlock began, avoiding the first part, but trying to apologise in his own way. It was not often that he didn't want to win a conversation, but he couldn't help it; he was regretting his words. He knew that what he had said made him uncomfortable, made him guilty, but he had to defend himself. Giving into any sort of emotions would be soft, and that was far from what he needed right now. "That is why I ask you to come here, and it has been difficult to get you to assist me lately. That is all."

She closed her eyes momentarily, composing herself as she let out a small sigh. Her eyes opened again as she stared at Sherlock, for once not feeling so small as she talked to the man.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't just drop everything for you all of the time. I've done so much for you; I've risked everything, and it's a burden for you to so much as thank me. And Andrew is… well, he's my boyfriend and sometimes he's going to prioritise over work when I'm not expected to be here. You'll just… have to accept that. That's how it's going to be," she huffed. She felt proud of herself for finally saying what she wanted to, as awful as the conversation felt.

"Fine," Sherlock said hoarsely, immediately moving away from her and swiftly out of the morgue.

She stared sadly at the door, wanting to apologise, but she hadn't said or done anything wrong. Sherlock was the one tossing her around, having high expectations of her, and could barely show any gratitude. This was for the best; he was not a child, and if he was going to work with her, he needed to learn how to behave more politely.

She walked over to the microscope to clean up whatever mess he must of left there, but when she looked down to see what had been under the microscope, there was nothing there. No slide, no specimen- absolutely nothing. Why was he even there then? Certainly not to see her, that had been clarified.

Molly groaned; she had no idea what was going on, but she knew everything would be uncomfortable with Sherlock now… for her at least. He would probably just push her away.

* * *

The man pushed Molly up against the counter of the morgue, locking eyes with her, his face so close. His hands were sliding around her waist and up her sides as she felt a chill go down her spine. His lips moved frantically against hers as she wrapped her hands in his curls.

"I need you here in the lab more, I want you here," he mumbled, barely moving his lips from her skin as he kissed along her neck, nipping at her collarbone.

Molly inhaled sharply as she tugged his curls tighter, pressing her body close, her mind spinning from the attention to her skin. "Why?" she moaned quietly.

"Get rid of him," he growled against her, ignoring her question. He moved his hands under her shirt, exploring her skin, desperate for her.

"Sherlock," she moaned again as she pulled his face back up to hers, kissing him frantically, biting his lower lip.

Molly's eyes snapped open, a light amount of perspiration on her forehead and she moved her hand against it. She went to groan, but the noise was cut off when she turned her head to see Andrew still sleeping soundly next to her.

God, why did Sherlock have to seep his way into everything, even her subconscious? She had barely seen him the past two months anyway, not since their last big discussion. He had sent John to do his work so that he could avoid her.

She went to roll out of bed when an arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back to him. She let out a small squeak as Andrew was pressed against her. He kissed the back of her neck and it made her shiver. But as he was pressed behind her, his face was not the one Molly was envisioning.

* * *

Sherlock looked up, annoyance already crossing his face as his eyes were laid on his brother.

"Sherlock," Mycroft acknowledged as he sat down in John's usual chair, but his voice became more serious. "We have a problem."

"Run out of cake then?" Sherlock replied, a small smirk on his face as he turned his eyes back to his laptop.

"Sebastian Moran. We may have eliminated all of the snipers before returning you back here, but this man took over James Moriarty's network, and he is in London… we think looking for you."

Sherlock stiffened at this as John and Mycroft looked at Sherlock's expression.

"I suggest you drop whatever case you are working on right now. We have a body that Moran has left us, and I think you'll want a look."

Sherlock stood up at the same time as John did, both putting on their jackets and briskly moving out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

As they approached the body, Sherlock felt a pang of nostalgia as he glanced around the room to see big I.O.U letters written all over the walls, mostly in blood. His face was completely flat, void of emotion, but he felt far from it. He was forced away from his home, from the ones he cared about for two years before he could return. They had hunted down the snipers and Mycroft assured him it was safe enough to come back.

"I.O.U carved into her back, Sherlock," John said to him, looking over the body.

"He's certainly made his point," Sherlock replied, still looking around the room, away from John and Mycroft. Sherlock deduced the differences from Moriarty he could already see in Moran. There was anger and spite in the jagged way he scattered the letters all over the walls.

Moran had been Moriarty's right hand man, did the dirty work for him. This was something Moran had done personally; it was a situation that he took _personally. _Rage encompassed the area that was tainted by this man, the violence all too much of an outlet, but still unsatisfied.

Sherlock was silent as he looked around for anything, any pieceof evidence that could help him get to Moran. He was horror struck, the past resurfacing and he would not be able to let himself think straight if he dwelled on it; he couldn't be torn away from his life a second time, he would not let it come to that.

"She was a fighter though," John said, "poor girl," he said as he respectfully dropped her hand at her side. He moved from his crouching position to stand up. "She must have cut Moran pretty good by the looks of it; sharp nails."

Sherlock nodded, not giving John much of his attention as he continued to examine the rest of the room. "Collect it," he replied mechanically and then turned to Mycroft, forcing his next words out. "I assume you can spare men to keep an eye on John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade?" He never wanted help from Mycroft, but this wasn't just about him. He wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

"That can be arranged," Mycroft replied, looking around the room for a moment before he spoke up again, another thought coming to his mind. "And Dr Hooper?"

Yes," Sherlock said instinctively, averting his gaze from his brother and shaking the thought of his last conversation with Molly. He was taken by surprise when he realised that he hadn't thought about her. Last time, she was not in danger. If things didn't go right with her helping him fake his death then she could've lost so much, but in physical danger, no. Moriarty saw her as unimportant, which was the farthest thing from the truth.

This was different now though. There was a good chance that Moran knew who had helped him; there wasn't anyone else that would have done it. Molly of all people should be watched over closely.

* * *

Sherlock sighed internally in relief as he saw Molly attending to her duties, safe and free from harm. He had been on the edge of his seat since he first stepped into the room where the murdered girl lay. His mind was spiralling to his unpleasant past as much as he tried to push it out of his thoughts. He had to keep his mind free and clear of anything that hinted of irrational or emotional.

John watched Sherlock as he was absent-mindedly watching Molly work. She hadn't noticed the two of them walk in and was delved into her work, as focused as ever. She was sewing up the incision she had made to examine the corpse, making sure to be careful and precise.

Now as he watched, he remembered back two months ago when his cruel words snapped out and he had hurt Molly, but she kept herself focused and confident. He knew that it pained her when he did it, he knew exactly what to say to hurt her, and he hated that he had said it.

She finally stilled for a second as she realised there were people in the room with her, looking up to see Sherlock and John. As her eyes fixed on them, Sherlock turned away and went over to the work bench to busy himself.

"Hey, Molly," John said with a small smile, following behind Sherlock now so he could assist with anything Sherlock needed. He didn't need to be a great detective to figure out how bothered Sherlock was by all of this. Sherlock had wanted all of this to end a long time ago and it was creeping back up on him.

"Hey," she smiled back. She immediately went back to her work, but her mind was fixed on something much different now. She didn't want to ignore Sherlock, but his words kept stinging her over and over as they had been since he had said them. He hadn't even been there since their last conversation; he was avoiding her like the plague. She didn't want him to leave her alone; she would have rather had her dates interrupted again. She cared for Andrew but she still _loved _Sherlock. She couldn't fathom the thought of him out of her life.

She finally cleaned up what she was doing and walked over to the two of them. John was analysing something while Sherlock was looking at his own.

"I.O.U." Molly said quietly, but it startled Sherlock from his concentration. He watched her fingers running over the letters on the picture as she stared down at them, avoiding his gaze. "You've mentioned this before," she remembered; his mental note from so long ago. He watched her eyes blaze with concern as she remembered when she had heard that phrase, and it was enough for her to disregard the uncomfortable situation she was in from their previous conversation.

She looked up at him. "Sherlock, is everything okay?"

He watched her expression, still in thought as he forgot to answer her as he stared blankly down at the picture that had clicked in her memory. He didn't think that ordinary people remembered such precise details. It was a casual question she had asked him over two years ago and the relation had clicked immediately. She could tell how upset he was when he had to fake his death, and she knew his mind was going back to that bad place. How did she pick up on any of that? How was he so transparent to her when he put up such a strong wall against everyone?

John watched as Molly stood there perplexed, still waiting for him to say something. Molly moved herself closer to him, the concern growing as she put two and two together. She sat on the stool next to him, her hand absent-mindedly resting upon his knee as she leaned towards him in the slightest bit. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock finally snapped out of it, nodding his head. "Another case," he said, turning his head back to his notes but his body turned towards her. Molly sat in her same position as she turned her head to John to look at him, hoping maybe he would fill her in.

_Moran_ he mouthed.

She nodded and pulled her hand away, standing up to return to her work. This was obviously big for Sherlock, for everyone, and Sherlock needed to seem like nothing was wrong so he could focus and could get this sorted through.

She was worried for everyone involved, she knew who was in danger last time, but Sherlock and John were the main ones here. Sherlock went through so much, and John fell apart and was in so much pain last time things went in this direction; she didn't want to see them like that ever again.

Sherlock was there for a long time, making sure he didn't miss any detail, anything that Moran wanted him to see; something that could end this sooner. John had left a while ago and Molly was finally finishing up her things. She was there well past when her shift ended, forgetting she was supposed to meet Andrew.

She couldn't just leave though; she had this feeling deep in the pit of her stomach that told her she should ask and make sure he was okay. She needed to know that he was.

"Sherlock?" Molly said, shaking Sherlock from his mind palace once again. He looked up to her and waited. "Are you really alright?"

"Yes, Molly," he said, trying to wave it off. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably; he wouldn't have the first idea how to talk about _feelings_ even if he had wanted to. It simply wasn't his area, never had been.

She unconsciously moved a step closer to him as she spoke, her eyes gentle and innocent. "The last time we talked… I know what I said…" she looked around clearing her throat. "I'm still right in what I said, Sherlock, but this is different. If -"

Her words were cut short by the same familiar, annoying face that Sherlock did not want to see, and at the wrong time for Molly because she felt the need to tell Sherlock what she wanted to say. They were a bit close, enough that it might have looked odd, but Molly did not flinch away. "Hold on," she said patiently to Sherlock, turning in the direction of the door.

She normally was so excited to see Andrew, and Sherlock assumed itching to get out of the lab, but she was calm, relaxed and very determined with what she was trying to say. He watched, barely able to hear Molly's words asking Andrew to give her a moment with Sherlock and a minute later they were found alone again. He still hadn't moved, but he waited for her to come back over to him.

"I was trying to say that if there's anything you need, anything at all…. Don't hesitate to call me; I know this is serious and that people could be in danger. I want to help in any way that I can..." she said, giving him a sincere smile as she added a moment later "even- even if you just need to talk. I know that's not normally you but well- you know…" she trailed off.

She slapped herself internally; she had kept herself pretty composed until the end. She cared deeply, and she was concerned for everyone. She realised her hand was on top of his, squeezing it as a comforting gesture. He was still looking at her now as she blushed; pulling her hand away but Sherlock's tightened, returning the gesture to her.

He stood up and kept his eyes fixed on her, moving into her space as she could tell that he was scanning her. He had been an unbelievable arse to her, enough to make the mousy girl stand up for herself and yell at him; all about how inconsiderate he was, and how he always expected her to drop everything for him. She had been right in everything she said, and instead of apologising, he acted like a child, pouting and avoiding her for months. Now the second she knows that something is wrong, she dropped her upset towards him and is being nice again.

He was endangering her life and she thought nothing of it. The only thing he could see was sincere concern, but appreciation for him. She _cared_ so much still. Why did humans do this? Why do they subject themselves to hurt over and over? She knew he wouldn't change yet here she was again, as willing as ever to help.

Molly took in a sharp breath at his closeness to her, staring at his mouth for a second before she looked away.

"Thank you, Molly," he said as he let go of her hand finally, his eyes a bit softer than she normally saw them.

Andrew was outside of the door as Molly opened it to leave, grabbing her things at the door. He gave Sherlock a quick wave, but he only saw it out of the corner of his eye as he focused on Molly a last time before her figure disappeared behind the door. Why was she always the person to take him by surprise?


	6. Chapter 6

"My date went well in case you were wondering," John replied, annoyed at Sherlock's silence. Sherlock sat in his chair, hands steepled under his chin. John normally wouldn't be out on a date at a time like this, but as Sherlock would say, it was an irrational fear to make sure that Mary was okay. They had been together for a few months now and he was absolutely in love with her already.

Sherlock barely moved his eyes to him, but said nothing. He watched as John took out a first aid kit, and began to bandage himself. The kit was blocking Sherlock's view so when John looked up at him, Sherlock raised his eyebrow in wonder.

John held his arm up for Sherlock to see. "Mary's cat scratched me, she was trying to brush it and it fought me off…" he trailed off as Sherlock's expression changed, his thoughts were immediately somewhere else. "Bloody cats… I told her she should have gotten a dog."

John continued to wrap up his wound and it took him a moment to see Sherlock's body stiff, lost; a worried expression clouding his face as he sprang up in panic.

His mind ravelled around past events, scorned by the thought of missing something. There was always one thing, but this was a major one; something he should have seen coming. He remembered John leaning down on the body, recalling the woman killed by Moran, envisioning the blood around her nails as she had tried to fight him off. And immediately then his palace took him into another room, one separated from the others, the room for Molly. It was disturbed though; the room was filled with something he couldn't explain and he found the I.O.U plastered on one wall as Andrew was planted in a chair, a waving hand at him and a snicker on his face. He could see the cut on his hand, consistent with John's examination.

"There's always something," he said angrily, throwing his coat on quicker than he ever had as John stood, forgetting his wound as he followed compliantly.

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"I saw, but I didn't _observe_, John. I let my guard fall," he was chastising himself for it. _How could he have been so thick?_

"Sherlock?"

"Andrew is Moran," he hissed, walking swiftly out the door as he waved a cab down quickly. "He waved to me, purposefully when I wasn't paying attention to him. He had a cut on his hand and he wanted me to see it. The woman's body that you observed, you said she had sharp nails, which she tried to defend herself against Moran with."

"Jesus," John said, the worry clicking as he hurried as Sherlock was now as they got into the cab.

"He's been observing me and everyone else from a close distance, using Molly again because she was an easy target. I should have seen that."

* * *

Molly giggled as she fell against the bed, Andrew on top of her. He was a bit rougher with her than usual, though smirking as he bit along her neck and collarbone, surely hard enough to leave marks. She pulled his face back up to hers as she gave him a chaste kiss before another one of passion, biting his lower lip. His attention returned to her smooth, pale skin.

She was trying to enjoy the night, but she kept worrying about Sherlock, and about everyone else. She could clear it from her thoughts for a bit, enough to show Andrew she was paying attention, but she would always go back to thoughts of Sherlock. She of all things hoped that he was okay, that everything was going to be okay. But when you're battling against criminal masterminds, you never see what's coming next.

Her phone began buzzing on the table next to her as she hesitated, lightly pushing his chest up as she tried to get up, but he pressed her down, pinning her wrists to the bed.

"Andrew," she started, trying to move, but she couldn't. "I have to get my phone."

She looked away from the phone and to his face now as he lay still on top of her, her wrists trapped as it began to hurt. A look of resentment spread across his face before it splayed into a smile. "Andrew?" she asked, becoming a bit frightened.

He leaned down, his hot breath on her ear as he whispered to her, his fingers tightening against her fragile wrist. "Sebastian, actually," he said, letting out a hiss. "Sorry I couldn't let you talk to him."

She tried to move away from his grasp, but it was useless. Molly let out a cry of pain as his grip became too tight around her left wrist, his smirk growing brighter as he watched her pained expression. "I'm sure he's figured it out now, and he'll probably be here soon…" he trailed off, letting out a long sigh. "Tedious, this is really, but I _must_ thank you, Molly, for all of the great help you've given me."

She swallowed hard, not knowing what to say or how to move, her eyes snapped shut. This was all happening again. "James would be so proud of me…" he said, "oh, and don't give me that frown, Molly Hooper!"

She was a fool. How could she have let this happen to her again? Shouldn't there be some sort of red flag that you were dating a criminal? He was perfect, charismatic, understanding, and to make it all worse, she had slept with him… the thought made her stomach turn. She started to gag and all she wanted to do was empty the contents of her stomach, but his grip tightened on her arms.

"Oh no, Molly Hooper," he said, as she cried out, "we're not going to have you fussing. All I want is to simply even up the field. _An eye for an eye…_"

He moved his hands up now as he wrapped them around her neck, beginning to cut off her air supply. She instinctively reached up to grab his arms, trying hard to pry his hands off of her neck. She panicked as her lungs tried desperately to find air, but were unsuccessful. But in just enough time Molly lifted her knee up, bashing it into his groin as he cried out. In his vulnerable moment she pushed him off and he hit his head against the headboard.

Molly rolled over and brought herself to the floor while he was momentarily debilitated, reaching under her nightstand to grab the gun resting under. She stood up quickly, pointing it in his direction. He began to lurch forward after her until his eyes met the gun placed in her shaking hands, her breath heavy. For a single moment, Moran's eyes filled with an instinctive panic, but then it was gone and he was smiling.

"You really think that I believe that a woman such as you is capable of shooting anyone?" He asked as he walked towards her, Molly walking backwards as she kept the gun pointed at him. Although she cowered in fear, her hand reached to pull at the back of the gun; it was aimed and perfectly ready now, if she could only convince herself.

If she had to, she would, she told herself. She continued backing up out into the sitting room as Moran followed calmly, shaking his head at her as he was unconvinced. "If you- if you think that I won't do something, that I won't do this for him, you're _wrong_."

He let out a bellowing laugh as he stopped moving forward for a moment. "Oh, Dr Hooper, such a silly thing are ordinary creatures like you. You let Jim use you, you let me use you, and you let Sherlock Holmes use you. Now you're about to kill a man, what does that say for _your_ moral ethic?"

She finally found herself backed into the corner of the sitting room, Moran not far behind. He stood a few feet in front of her as he waited for the right moment, the right opportunity. He felt she wouldn't pull the trigger, but he had to approach it in the right way.

He waited for one silent moment before leaping forward at her again.


	7. Chapter 7

"John!" Sherlock yelled, signalling him to hurry as he moved inside the first door, picking the lock easily as he went up the stairs. His mind raced at the things that could be happening. She didn't answer her phone, Moran had intended on him finding out so Molly would be in danger. This was the plan from the beginning.

John was catching up to him now as Sherlock was almost to the top of the stairs, but they heard shots fire from the other side of the door; three distinct shots.

Their faces both panicked as Sherlock fumbled with the lock, any coolness left in his composure gone as John had to help him open it. They stumbled in frantically as they saw Molly pushed up against the corner of the sitting room; the gun slacked in her hands as she stared down at Moran's body. He was slumped on the ground, blood filling up the white rug as Molly became more and more horrified.

She looked up at the two for a second, a fearful look in her face as her eyes moved back to the ground, disbelief that she had killed Moran.

Sherlock stood frozen as he stared at Molly; relief was an understatement when he realised that she was okay and it was Moran's body on the floor. She said nothing though, still in complete shock with a dreadful look on her face, her face so pale she looked ill.

When Sherlock had hesitated, John slowly walked over to her to take the gun. "You're alright, Molly, its okay," he heard faintly as John repeated the same consolation in different words, trying to calm her.

When John took the gun from her, Sherlock saw how violently her hands shook, how silent she was as the shock was still set in her. The next thing he noticed was the bruising around her neck along with the bite marks all around it; she would panic further when she saw those marks.

Molly dealt with bodies and saw blood all the time, but not in this fashion. Knowing she was the one who had put it there made her stomach turn worse than it had before. She wanted to seek comfort from them, but she was not about to lose the contents of her stomach on the floor in front of them; there was a big enough mess to deal with already.

She dashed past Sherlock and into the bathroom, expelling herself into the toilet. She heaved in heavy breaths as she tried to calm down, not able to control the spasms from her stomach. The apprehension rose in her throat along with the bile.

She finally stood after minutes that had seemed to last forever and hunched forward as she gripped the sink with her shaking hands. The first thing Sherlock noticed when he reached the bathroom was her pale white knuckles as she gripped the sink impossibly tight, trying to find composure. All he could hear in the silent room was the sound of Molly trying to calm, panic evident in the unevenness of her shaking breath. He knew they needed to get Molly away from this soon; John had already phoned Lestrade and he was on his way.

Molly hadn't realised that Sherlock came into the bathroom until she felt a hand lightly grip her shoulder comfortingly. Her nerves had caused her to flinch at first, but she relaxed back into his touch before he could pull away, practically leaning back against him so she didn't have to grip the counter so tightly. "Breathe, Molly," he reminded her.

Sherlock let her lay against him for a few minutes before going back into the sitting room, giving her some privacy to collect herself. This was the second time that she had been subject to Sherlock's dilemmas. Moran was right, she had been used and used again; _did_ that make her a fool? Because right now she certainly _felt_ like one.

She walked out into the living room and saw Lestrade and his force going through the proper procedure; she knew the drill. She saw John, but she looked around everywhere, unable to see Sherlock.

"Did he leave then?" she asked John nervously, looking around again even though she knew she wouldn't find him. It was typical that he left without saying goodbye, but she was still afraid and shaken up, and she didn't want to be by herself once everyone was done.

"Yeah," John said, looking to the coroner as they took the body out. He watched as Molly cringed at the sight of the bag, of what she had just done. "You did well, Molly," he said, squeezing her shoulder.

She gave a distant smile of thanks as she looked at him, knowing she would be left alone in her dreary apartment soon. "You'll just need to give Lestrade a statement and then we can go," John started again.

"Go?" Molly asked, confused.

"I thought you'd be staying at Baker Street tonight," John replied. "You can probably get some of your things before we go too."

Molly hesitated, looking at him even more perplexed now. "I don't really think Sherlock would like that…"

"He was the one that said you were staying."

* * *

Molly looked around nervously, hugging her coat tighter around herself for comfort as she watched John walk into the kitchen. He was making tea for all of them, hoping it would make her feel a little less on edge.

Sherlock was gazing out the window; his back faced her as he crossed his arms, contemplating the events of the night. He wanted to enjoy the relief of the broken down network. There wasn't a leader now, and it was probably not strong enough to continue, but there was a feeling in his stomach that felt far from relieved. He felt uneasy, and most of all guilty. Molly went through so much for his sake; she didn't ask for any of this.

With his body still turned towards the window he knew every move Molly was making behind him. In apprehension, she would be letting her eyes wander around the room, trying to convince herself to stay calm, but every few seconds she would let her eyes flicker to Sherlock's figure. She was waiting for him to turn around, to acknowledge her or say _something_. But he knew the second he did, the awful feeling would grow worse, and it would make him feel weak. He had no doubts that he, for some reason, wanted Molly sleeping in his flat tonight. But it was irrational; she was no longer in danger. Having her here relaxed him a bit, and it most definitely was going to make it easier on Molly.

John finally came back into the room with a tray for three. He set it on the table where it would be in reach of everyone and tried to make Molly comfortable; he offered her a list of things before telling her she could take her coat off and sit.

John and Molly sat and talked quietly, talking about petty and meaningless things. John did not want to trigger anything and it seemed, to him at least, to be distracting Molly a bit. Sherlock knew that she was far from it. He could hear the subtle shakes in her voice, and recognise her hands were trembling just as bad when she would put her cup down and it would clink nervously against the table. He waited for their conversation to finally trail off before he turned around and sat in his usual chair.

John may have been oblivious to Molly's discomforting thoughts, but he noticed Sherlock watch her carefully every time her gaze was away from him. Sherlock was still quiet; he was never one for small talk, and even if they had discussed the present situation, he never involved himself with conversations of feelings.

They had been sitting there for a while and both John and Sherlock noticed Molly starting to slouch, obviously exhausted. John was about to offer his room, but Sherlock interceded. "She can sleep in my bed as I won't be sleeping anyway."

Molly looked over to him fully, surprised at first, and gave a small smile as she watched his hands pressed under his chin. "I didn't think that you would want to sleep on the uncomfortable sofa," he said now.

She nodded, the smile a bit bigger as she looked down at her hands now.


	8. Chapter 8

John had retired to his room and Sherlock guided her down the hallway, standing a step ahead of the bathroom so she could enter. He watched as she paused in the doorway, gaining the sight of her expression in the mirror as her face lost its neutral, controlled expression. She flooded into a face of horror as her hands instinctively reached up to her neck. She touched the hand prints that had left slight bruising on her skin. It was even more horrifying for Molly to see the 'love' bites on her neck from Moran and her doe eyes bulged.

He watched her eyes become glassy as she turned her head away from the mirror, her hands dropping to her sides as she clamped her eyes shut; she didn't want to cry in front of Sherlock. "Thanks," she mumbled politely to him for his hospitality, taking another step into the doorway and shutting the door behind her quietly.

Sherlock stared at the door for a long moment, her pained expressed glued into his head, plastered on a large wall of her room in his mind palace. He wanted nothing more than to remove it from the wall, but it wouldn't while he saw her in this state.

On the other side of the door, Molly took in a deep breath as she prompted herself to look into the mirror again. Her hands came up less erratically now as she let her fingers graze over the outlines of the bruises, the size of Andrew- no, Moran's- hands stuck within her memory.

She could remember the things he had done to her with her consent; well, the things she let _Andrew _do to her, and that she had enjoyed it. It made her sick to remember the things she_ willingly_ did for him. The marks would fade, and eventually, so would the emotions that went along with this; she would get over it. But right now that was not the case; everything was fresh. The physical aspect of their relationship, the moment when she realised he was Moran, and a slumped body on the ground crowded her thoughts. Criminal mastermind number two that she found slithered into her love life, and this time around the relationship had not ended on decent terms. She had killed a man tonight.

* * *

Sherlock had been sitting in his chair for three hours now, replaying everything over in his head, and he just wanted things to clear. He tapped his foot incessantly, wanting his violin, but he had left it in his bedroom where Molly was sleeping. He did not want to frighten her, but he knew he could be quiet enough to not wake her up. He stood up from his chair and made a stride out of the sitting room and down the hallway.

He slipped into the room, closing the door as silently as he had opened it. He gave a slight glance in her direction in the dark room. Molly was facing the other way towards the wall, her legs curled up into her chest as she lay on her side.

It only took him two steps further into the room to realise that she wasn't sleeping. He heard her sniff and knew immediately that she was quietly crying. She knew he was in the room, but was too exhausted to turn around, too confused about everything. It was all worse when she couldn't sleep and that was all that she wanted to do.

Sherlock had stopped in his tracks when he heard her crying sniff, his violin completely forgotten as he turned his body in the direction of the bed. He felt uncomfortable, but he wasn't going to leave the room; he knew John would have reprimanded him for that. The dead silence broke as she tried to control a harder sob that she let out, curling her knees up higher into her chest.

"Molly," he said quietly as he walked over to the bed, sitting down on the very edge of it. He didn't want his closeness to startle her, so he sat there waiting for her to turn to him.

Molly inhaled, hesitating as his soft voice resonated in her ears. She wanted to turn around, to seek comfort, but it was embarrassing. Sherlock didn't like dealing with feelings, and she felt as though he wouldn't want to deal with her being 'difficult' or 'emotional.' She was ashamed of herself, of what she had let happen.

"Molly?" she heard again.

He finally saw her move, her hand reaching up to wipe the moisture from her eyes. He waited a moment as she took in another breath, rolling over to lay on her other side as she looked to Sherlock.

There was enough moonlight in the room for Sherlock to see her face as she looked up at him. He noted the red puffiness in her eyes, the tear stains running down her cheek as much as she had tried to wipe them away. He found that he had wanted to gently rub his finger along the stain on her cheek and make it disappear. He restrained himself though, his hand resting on his knee.

She lay there silently, patiently as he observed all of her physical reactions to the traumatic events, but the deductions stopped when he saw another tear roll down her face and fall to the pillow.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, having an internal battle of sorts different from Molly's. She had done so much for him, been there every step of the way after he faked his death, and tried her best time and time again to do whatever he needed. She would offer even more help than she gave and even after him being an arse to her, she made sure that he knew that she would still help him in any way. She would always toss everything aside for those she cared about, for him. He couldn't even push past his isolated wall to comfort her.

As he scolded himself, he realised that Molly was moved over, her head resting upon his thigh and his fingers were gently running through her hair. He didn't know if she had moved to him on her own accord or if he had encouraged her to move closer, but he let her head rest there, tears falling down her cheeks.

It wasn't long before he knew that he was going to be there for a while. He moved up onto the bed, laying against the headboard as Molly's head rested in his lap again, his hand moving back to that comfortable position of running through her hair as they both stared at the window across from the bed.

The air in the room was quiet and sombre. Molly wasn't hysterical, and Sherlock barely heard her crying besides a sniff here and there, but he could sense her sad, morose mood. He wished he could do something more. He looked down and observed her in the moonlit room, sighing softly.

"Why does this always happen?" she asked quietly, trying to hold in a harder sob as she kept her gaze still in the direction of the window.

"Because of me," he answered honestly, still looking down at her as his hand moved out of her hair, his thumb grazing repeatedly over her cheekbone.

She wanted to refute it. In places she blamed herself for falling for criminal masterminds, but on another level they went after her because of her tie to Sherlock. She was the weakest of everyone apparently, not clever enough to notice the manipulation. She couldn't help but still feel she was in this position mostly because of herself even though Sherlock thought it was entirely his own fault.

She couldn't reply though, her body was finally beginning to shut down. She was inbetween awake and asleep as she thought over this, broken thoughts within her head as she drifted off.


	9. Chapter 9

John walked out of the kitchen with his morning tea and sat in his chair, Sherlock sitting in his respective. He knew that Sherlock had not slept that night, and he still had a look of distraught on his face. He cared for Molly more than he let visible, John wasn't stupid. But John could only wonder if he had talked to Molly and if Molly was actually as okay as she seemed to be when he retired to his room last night, leaving the two by themselves. It probably wasn't the case, but he would ask anyway.

"Any idea how she's doing?"

"As well as a woman who's just shot someone the night previous," he remarked with bitterness in his voice.

John sighed, "so not good then. Did you talk to her?"

"That isn't my area."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I know, but that doesn't mean you couldn't try for her. It is our fault that she's in this position…" he trailed off, the guilt emanating from Sherlock to him as he sighed again. "We do owe her that."

"Yes, John, thank you. Without you, there would be so much I didn't know."

John's jaw tightened at this and he gave Sherlock a pensive look. "Yes, add it to the list just below your new knowledge about the solar system." He huffed as he picked up his paper, hiding his face from Sherlock.

"I hope you're not being this much of a pain in the ass to her," he added without moving the paper from his view, but Sherlock had tuned him out. His elbows rested on his knees and his hands steepled against his mouth as he lost himself in thought.

It felt like it had only been minutes before Sherlock spoke up, sighing before he did so, but he had been sitting silently with John for an hour now. "She finally noticed the bruising around her neck, in which she panicked. And when I went to get my violin in my bedroom last night I found her crying. Better?" he asked, looking away from him.

John let the paper gently fall, his expression concerned as he looked to Sherlock, not angry at him anymore.

"And did you talk- did you help her at all?"

He shrugged, "I sat with her until about two hours ago."

John was surprised at this, but tried to hide his expression. Sherlock knew the second the words had left his lips though.

"Is she finally sleeping?"

"She slept most of the night."

Well, that was an even bigger surprise. John didn't expect Sherlock to be so comforting, not at all. He hadn't seen him this distraught since Irene 'died.' Sherlock was angry with himself. When Moriarty did this it was a very different situation. Molly was broken now, and he had no idea how to go about doing anything about it.

* * *

Molly woke up to find her head on the pillow and her bed empty. She noticed that she was neatly tucked in, the blanket placed over her so that she wouldn't get cold.

Sherlock had stayed there most of the night; he sat silently as he continued to ravel over this strong feeling in the pit of his stomach. She was always a preferred person; they were acquainted- colleagues, even friends maybe, and he would rather talk to her than most people. And he cared for her deeply, as much as he was reluctant to admit.

But he sat there for so long staring at her slumbering form. Her face was covered by the moonlight and he spent the time observing the structure of her face carefully. The feeling of her soft hair and her soft skin tingled in his fingers when he left his bedroom. He had only left about an hour before she woke.

She lied there for a few minutes before she could convince herself to get out of bed. Mentally, she was still exhausted. She had killed a man less than 24 hours ago. Her dad had made her promise that she would keep a gun in her flat to protect herself when she first moved to London. She had always wanted to get rid of it, but after her dad passed away, she felt that she needed to leave it there to keep him at peace.

She never thought she would ever use that, not even for practice, not for protection. Molly Hooper was not the type to like guns or want to use them.

Regardless of who it was, she had killed someone, and it wasn't something she would ever be okay with. It may have been Moran, but she had cared for _Andrew_. It was so confusing to try and sort it out in her mind, but she had gone through something similar to this, hadn't she?

No, she hadn't killed Jim, and she didn't really care for him all that much. But Andrew had gotten to her, he made her happy when she thought he was Andrew, and she thought she was going to have a chance at something normal.

_I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship._

Maybe he was right; she attracted all of the wrong people. She was already doomed to be a spinster, so maybe she should stop trying.

She needed to move on. That was what she was trying to do when she started dating Andrew… it made her feel uneasy, trying to decipher between the two names. Two completely different people, but she knew Moran was the true one, and he had been part of the horrible things that the people she cared for went through. But she needed to pick up where she left off. She didn't want to dwell on it, as much as she should've dealt with it. This was all becoming so tiring and she had barely opened her eyes this morning.

She forced herself out of bed and got dressed. She didn't need to call out of work today, she was going to go and pretend none of this happened. It wasn't over completely, as Lestrade told her she'd need to come in, and as her friend more than as a detective he wanted her to talk to a psychologist at New Scotland Yard. She hoped she could get out of that last part, but she would probably comply to keep Lestrade at ease.

When she walked into the sitting room, John looked up from his seat and Sherlock turned around from the window. She thought that she was looking better than she really was. She let her hair fall freely around the front of her shoulders, trying to cover up the bruises on her neck, but they were clearly visible, worse than last night. Her eyes were still a bit red, not to mention the bags under her eyes from exhaustion. She bit down on her lip as she realised they were staring.

She pulled her sleeves of her jacket down more as Sherlock noticed the bruises on her wrists, much more developed than last night.

"Uhm- I'm going to go to work now. Well- after I go and see Lestrade…"

"Are you sure you're ready to tackle work already, Molly?" John offered immediately, the caring doctor in him kicking in.

"I'll- yeah, I'll be fine," she said nervously, giving a sad sort of smile. Both John and Sherlock were unconvinced.

John stood up to walk her to the door but she wanted to thank them for what they had done for her. She didn't think she would have been able to deal with being in her own flat and dealing with the mess.

"Thank you, both of you, for letting me stay here," she said gratefully. She went over to John and gave him a peck on the cheek. He smiled at her and gave a small blush at her thanks.

Then she approached Sherlock, he still hadn't said anything to her yet. She stood up on her tiptoes, resting her hand on his upper arm to hold herself steady as she gave him a kiss on the cheek, lingering a bit longer than she had with John. Her cheek rested against his for a second as she whispered a second thank you to him.

As she brought herself back on to flat feet, she didn't realise she let her fingers gently rake down the length of his arm when she pulled away. His fingers slightly inclined inwards when her hand fell upon his, not even realising he had wanted her warm hand to linger there longer.

She couldn't believe he had lied with her last night, and she knew he had stayed for a long time before leaving the room. He was so gentle with her and it wasn't something she had seen before, but it calmed her.

John had been looking away, noticing the moment was a bit more private than the gesture Molly had given to him. He watched Sherlock stare at her until she disappeared behind the door. The cheek she had rested hers on felt warmer than the rest of his body.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** I apologise btw because the page break _never_ works on this site.

The cab was almost at Bart's and Molly felt relieved. She just wanted to sink into her work to try and forget about everything. Moving on, like she told herself; she didn't want to break.

Lestrade had convinced her to see the psychologist at Scotland Yard and they had given her a referral to a psychologist she could see full time. She shoved it into the bottom of her purse for now. She would keep it, just in case, but right now it wasn't what she wanted to think about.

Lestrade had also tried to convince her not to go into work. For some people, they could handle it, and they would feel better doing so to keep their mind away from things. But Molly worked in a morgue, with dead people. Some of who were murdered, sometimes shot, and it would resurface memories. Molly did this for a living though, blood and bodies didn't have an effect on her anymore. Or so she thought.

She went through her day as normal- well, as normally as she could. It wasn't difficult unless she found similarities in bodies to Andrew- _Moran_, or similar bullet wounds. But she did it; she went through her day and made it through her whole shift. She was proud of herself. It was a good step in the right direction.

When she had gone home though, she was expecting she would have to deal with the mess and she didn't know if she could handle it. But it was immaculate. It looked as though nothing had happened, the rug had been removed, everything looked normal. It relaxed her; the investigation crew must have come in to do the clean-up, but how did they get into her flat? And Lestrade told her it wouldn't be until the next day that someone was coming to clean it up.

When the cleaners came the next day, she was utterly confused. John knew who had the mess taken care of, but Molly didn't.

* * *

The next month went by as normal, but internally Molly battled with herself. She was jumpy around people and she really didn't want to leave her flat. She didn't want to be at home as much as she was in it though. It was a constant reminder.

Her brother called her a lot to check up on her, but she didn't really want to talk. She never should have told her mother what had happened, because she went and told everyone else. The last thing Molly wanted to do was bother everyone else with her problems. They were hers to deal with and the burden shouldn't fall on anyone else.

While John tried to make more conversation with her on the morgue and check up on her, Sherlock pretended nothing had happened. If anything, he talked to her less. She appreciated, in a way, that he was the only one letting her try to deal with it, not mentioning anything. It wasn't out of choice that Sherlock didn't bring it up, though; he didn't know what to say, so he assumed it was the better option. He thought it was better than everyone else rehashing her memories. All Sherlock ever thought about was the look on her face every time John would ask "how have you been?" or when Lestrade would be with Sherlock on a case and asked if she was "finally seeing the psychologist she was referred to." How didn't anyone see the way she cringed inwardly and her voice trembled whenever they mentioned it?

She thought she was doing really well, until something happened at work while Sherlock and John were there. They had gone on lockdown because of a patient that had come to the ER armed; one of the emergency response nurses had been shot.

Molly had trembled the entire time and as much as she felt the need to seek comfort, she tried to stay as calm as she could manage. Sherlock observed her as she tried to keep her cool, not understanding. Weren't people hysterical, especially in a situation like this? Especially if they had been through a traumatic experience not too long ago. He didn't understand why she was so different.

When the lockdown was finally cleared and the building was safe, the non-essential staff were allowed to leave if they wished. Mike Stamford knew especially Molly would probably want to leave, so he gave her clearance to go.

"Mary is supposed to see me tonight and after all of this, I would really like to see her," he began. "But I don't think Sherlock," he said, looking to him, "would mind taking you home," John offered. He figured that Sherlock would probably protest right away, but he thought he would give it a try. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but said nothing, looking to Molly in response.

"Uhm- well, if you're sure it isn't a bother... I mean… I'll probably be fine on my own," she was a mess though, her nerves were all shot. Not even Sherlock wanted her to go home by herself. She would have been _fine_ though. He didn't worry about people, so why was he worrying now?

* * *

On their way back, they were both quiet, but Molly fidgeted all the way home and it distracted Sherlock. He couldn't help but look to her, watching her stare down at her wringing hands. She sniffed a few times, still uneasy from the night's events, but she was trying her best not to show it. Sherlock wanted to put his hand over hers, soothe her, but he couldn't manage to do it.

When they finally got to do the door, she expected Sherlock to leave, but he followed her inside instead. She just wanted to go to bed and let everything out, but that was not going to happen yet. She hadn't cried in a while. She was letting this take over her life, always trying to focus on pushing it out of her mind. But it made her think of it more. Maybe she should call the therapist that had been recommended to her.

She was stirred out of her thought as Sherlock brushed her arm when he went to hang up his coat. He stopped in front of her, analysing her face. He wasn't hiding the deductions anymore as he lifted her chin up with his finger. Her eyes were glossy as she waited for him to say something.

"You were startled earlier."

"Anyone would be …" she replied, she wasn't sure how else to.

"For more reasons than anyone else in there - most people would be hysterical. Why aren't you?"

"Because," Molly began, shaking her head as he released her chin and she started to cry. "Because I've been trying to move on. I'm tired of being… this mousy, weak Molly. I keep letting this happen to me."

"You didn't know-"

"I should've," she interrupted. "I let it happen with Jim, and then again…" she hesitated, a lump forming in her throat, her voice very quiet now. "I just wanted to move on from you, that's all I wanted, and I can't even have that."

She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to stop herself from crying. He felt a constriction in his chest and felt the need to say something. He didn't _want_ her to try and move on, yet he couldn't find the right words to refute it.

"Molly…"

"No-" she said, waving her hand. "I'm sorry, I know you don't like talking about… this… stuff," she said as she began wiping her eyes. "You don't have to stay."

But before she knew it, his arms were wrapped around her and she sank into his chest, beginning to cry harder. She wanted to stop, but she couldn't. She kept apologising to him as she fell apart, and every once in a while he would carefully tell her that it was alright. He was patient and soothing with her as he had been the night that the incident with Moran happened.

As she began to relax, she felt his lips touch the top of her head. She froze for a second, but then pulled her hands up to wipe her eyes again. She felt ridiculous - Sherlock probably thought she was pathetic. The last two times that she had allowed herself to cry were in front of him. He probably thought that was all that she did.

Sherlock let one arm fall to his side as he looked at her, assuring himself that she was better. Molly was trying to push herself away from embarrassment. There was no sense feeling like that now that he had seen her turn into a crying mess, but she did anyway. When she attempted to pull away from his embrace, she found her face close to his.

He stared at her with a soft expression as she took in his scent. He smelled wonderful and it made her head spin. The last time she was this close to him, his eyes kept falling to stare at her lips, but his mouth told her that he didn't want her.

Sherlock waited to see what she would do. As much as his scent was enveloping her, hers was doing the same to him. Her perfume wasn't too strong, and under it he could smell Molly. The comforting scent of mint and vanilla gave him a feeling in the pit of his stomach. She wanted to move her mouth closer - her dilated pupils and body language gave that away. Her expression told a different story; she looked confused, hesitant.

Molly seemed paralyzed in her spot and wasn't shaken out of it until Sherlock laced his fingers with her hand that had been loosely grasping his this entire time. Her hand had felt warm on his and he had no desire to pull away from her touch.

Molly wanted nothing more than to capture his lips; she wished to run her hands through her hair. Let her fingers and lips explore every inch of his skin. She would be lying if she had said that she didn't think about it all of the time. But he told her he had no interest in her and she wasn't going to violate that; it would be wrong. Unless he told her that he didn't feel that way, but it would never happen.

She was fighting off the same urges she was completely unaware that Sherlock was feeling. His pulse was high, his eyes dilated; he had a feeling of need for her. She had gone through so much; he couldn't even understand why she didn't hate him. By now anyone else who had gone through something like that for Sherlock - except John - would have told him to piss off and try not to see him again if they could help it.

It sickened him to think that he wanted desperately to make her pain go away, to soothe her until she was better and kiss her forehead. He wanted to tell her in some sort of way that he shouldn't have let any of that happen to her and he would be damned if any other harm came to her, but words like that - anything related to sentiment - were far beyond his reach.

But before he knew it, Molly broke their gaze by letting her eyes flutter closed. A disappointed, breathy sigh escaped her lips before she pulled her head back and pulled her fingers out of his grasp. "I have work in the morning - I should probably sleep."

A blush flooded her cheeks, exasperated by the close contact as she tried to make a greater distance between them, her eyes looking to the floor. "Thank you though."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hey guys :) so first of all, thank you to everyone that has read, and also to those who took the time to review. I really do appreciate all of the encouragement! But as you are my readers, I would very much like your opinion on something. I've been stuck for months on this story, because honestly this chapter feels like the end of the story. But I feel bad, because I originally rated this as M, and this doesn't have any smut. I would prefer to switch it to T. Let me know.**

* * *

Sherlock let his fingers flow against the bow, producing a beautiful sound coming from his violin. He had been playing for an hour now and he didn't want to stop. He was producing a piece from last night, of all of the confusion floating within his mind palace; confusion that was Molly. From Molly, about Molly; her scent, her soft skin, the way her breath fragmented when he was closer to her - it all sent a shiver down his spine. He had never felt like this for anyone before, why now? As much as he thought about it though, it wasn't just _now _- it was only something he couldn't admit to himself until now.

John would have found the sound more beautiful if it wasn't four in the morning. He dragged his hand down his face as he turned on the kettle. Clearly Sherlock was not going to allow him to get anymore sleep so he might as well get up for the day. He grabbed the paper off the front door and came back in to settle into his chair.

"You know, Sherlock," John began with grogginess in his voice, "they say that playing in the morning is bad for your violin."

Sherlock didn't even bother looking to him, but his playing subsided. "No, they don't."

"Well, it would be nice if that were true, so that you _wouldn't_ wake me up at this time. I didn't get in until well past 11."

Sherlock placed his violin down and began pacing along the sitting room. John watched him go back and forth for at least five minutes, his dressing gown sweeping behind him at every turn. Sherlock looked more confused than John had seen him.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock said angrily, waving his hand.

"Okay," John humoured, hesitating for a moment. He was trying to figure out what would have him in this mood, and then last night clicked into his head. "Was Molly okay when you brought her home?" he asked, putting his hands in his lap.

This caused Sherlock to slow his pacing now as he looked to John. "Please tell me that you were actually kind and took the poor girl home," John added with a groan.

"Yes, I took her home," Sherlock scoffed as he sat down in his chair. Under the confusion he remembered her small frame beneath his arms; he felt relief when remembering the comfort he gave her, and then ill when he realised he was dwelling on feelings. He clenched his hand when he remembered her warm one laced with his.

"You're sure that you're alright?"

"You've just asked that."

"Yes, and I don't believe that you're actually fine. Did something happen with Molly?"

"No."

"I'm not an idiot, you know," John started as he saw a smirk creep up on Sherlock's face. He pointed at him now, "don't even start," he reprimanded. "You only have a handful of people that you care about and I know that you feel guilty about what happened to her."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but said nothing as John continued. "I know you care about Molly, so don't say that you don't. I also know that you were jealous of Andr- err, Moran. I may not know how many different types of tobacco ash there are-"

"243."

John stared at him for a second as Sherlock interrupted him, "-but that doesn't mean I can't figure out things like that."

"Sentiment is a chemical def-"

"Defect found in the losing side? Yeah, I've heard that one before. I'm going to call bullshit on you, Sherlock," John said as he got up from his chair to attend to the whistling kettle in the kitchen. "Maybe you should push out of your comfort area and actually talk to her."

* * *

OoO

Molly walked nervously towards her lab that morning, her eyes heavy as she dragged herself through the hallway; she hadn't slept well. It took her a long time to fall asleep - she laid awake, telling herself not to think about Sherlock. She also praised herself; he didn't want her and she made the right decision by backing off. That was a step in the right direction, wasn't it? Why did she feel like rubbish, though?

When she had finally gotten herself to sleep she woke up from vivid nightmares. It was always the memory of shooting Moran, of him dead on the floor. She constantly remembered her dream where Sherlock had told her to get rid of Moran, but she just never put two and two together. Andrew had never shown any signs of being bad at all. He was perfect actually, which she thought should have made her suspicious.

When she walked through the doors, she found Sherlock at a microscope. He wasn't usually in here this early, and if he was, it was with John. To her, he looked very concentrated, but in reality he wasn't looking at anything. He may have kept his eyes straight on into the microscope, but to him it was absentminded. He was alert as soon as Molly walked into the room and he looked up at her, deducing her within seconds. He could see the exhausted eyes, the trembling hands.

She gave a shy smile as she looked away, not wanting to make eye contact. She knew he was deducing her and it made her feel uncomfortable. She didn't want to bother him with her problems; she had cried on him enough. "Morning."

They were very quiet for a long time as Sherlock finally found something to keep himself busy with, looking to Molly when she was concentrating on her work. She was having difficulty paying any attention though. Everything was taking her almost twice as long and she would lose focus quickly. If Sherlock made any sudden noises, she would get jumpy. She reprimanded herself for doing it the whole time which, in turn, made it worse.

They both went to grab something at the same time and their hands touched; Sherlock didn't realise until then the extent of her shaking hands and she pulled away quickly. He narrowed his eyes in confusion as he looked down to her. He didn't have to ask, because she knew what he always deduced from her. "Just the nerves…" she tried to play off as she looked down to the floor, but she found a hand gently grasping her arm.

"Relax, Molly," he said, meeting her eyes. He still felt guilty, felt responsible for all of this. She was not falling back to her normal self as quickly as he thought she would. She was trying to play it off like she was, but her anxiousness made it difficult for her to deceive.

He found words coming out of his mouth that he didn't even expect himself to say. "You don't hate me. Why?"

She shook her head, "Sherlock, what?" she asked incredulously.

"Moriarty and Moran were after _me_. They used you to get to me and I've also been informed that I do not treat you well. And for some reason you think that it was your fault. I would say that evidence deems it on me. Most people at this point logically resent someone that put them in that position."

She looked more deeply at his expression to see that he was sincere in his question, and found herself taking a step closer to him. "Sherlock, I could _never_ hate you." She bit her lip as he was quiet, still not understanding.

"Sherlock, I- I care for you. You know that I do, you know I would help you in any way that you needed. And I know that you weren't aware of what was happening as much as anyone else didn't."

Molly sighed again. "There isn't anything that anyone can do about it now. It's going to take me a while to get well- back to normal. But it isn't like I've been doing all the right things to make that happen as quickly as possible. I've been telling myself this whole time that if I pretend that it didn't happen, that it would go away." She was admitting it more to herself now than she was to him. "But I think about it even more now, it haunts my thoughts; it _doesn't _leave," she said, losing her composure as her voice cracked. "But I'll figure it out, I suppose… I know you just want things to go back to normal and I'm - well, I'm trying my best."

Sherlock didn't know how much he really wanted it to go back to normal though. He wanted this uneasiness in Molly to disperse, but maybe John was right. He _did _care for her.

Molly found that they were in the same position as in her flat last night and it was making her head spin familiarly. She bit her lip as her eyes stared at his mouth. They had been quiet for what felt like forever but remained in their spots. Somehow in the process, Sherlock's forehead had drifted down to rest against hers as he stared at her, trying to figure out what to say or what to do. Molly couldn't have been more confused as she was pressed back against the lab counter, and in front of her was Sherlock closer than ever.

Sherlock brought his hand up gently under her chin, letting his thumb graze over her lip. He memorized the way the soft skin of her mouth felt against his finger.

"Sherlock…" she began, but before she knew it she was cut off by his mouth meeting hers. He kissed her gently and she gave in immediately, a soft sigh escaping her lips in relief, almost in bliss. Her kisses were just as gentle but eager as she let herself press closer against him.

Molly realised that his lips felt so soft against hers, so incredibly warm, and the taste of him left her intoxicated. She did not comprehend immediately that Sherlock was kissing her, but when she finally had a grasp on the concept, a hand reached up to gently push against his chest as she pulled her mouth away. "Wait..."

If Molly wasn't mistaken, Sherlock looked a little lost. He had wanted to do that for longer than he thought, and it was more gratifying than he had expected. Other kisses that he received in his college and uni years were purely experimental and compared nothing to the way her lips felt on his. He found himself wanting to indulge more until he realised the concerned expression on her face.

Her eyes closed immediately as she felt only anxiety to be close against him now, a lump in her throat as she feared she would be rejected again. "Sherlock, you don't want me. You told me you weren't interested. Why are you…" she trailed off.

Molly found that she didn't want to believe that he was this close to her, that his lips were against hers, but the glistening of slight moisture on his lips said otherwise.

_John has alluded to the same thing as you and if you are thinking the same preposterous idea that he is, you should dismiss the thought because it is inaccurate. I am married to my work; I have no interest._

It clicked in his head as Sherlock realised the conversation that he had with Molly prior to the major events that happened recently. His thumb caressed back and forth against her jawline now as he tried to find the right words to explain it to her. He watched his thumb in motion to keep his eyes away from Molly. He couldn't bring himself to make eye contact with her as he allowed vulnerability to seep through.

"I find sentiment to be weak and pointless, but I can't escape it with you, Molly. I don't _want_ to. I have felt things that I have never felt for anyone before." He had closed his eyes for a second, registering what had left his lips. They fluttered open again though when he felt a small hand cupping his cheek. Molly bit down on her lower lip as she processed his words, a smile creeping onto her mouth.

Molly let her lips find Sherlock's again as she kissed him as gently as before, her hands running up and entangling in his curls as his hands were found cupping both sides of her face. She was pressed up closer against the counter, but she had completely forgotten where she was. All she focused on was Sherlock. She let her hands move around to explore the skin she had dreamed of for so long, need increasing within her as her kisses became more frantic.

Sherlock memorized every reaction, every little noise that she made to the movements of his mouth. A whole new room had been created for Molly, and he was going to catalogue everything. He would make himself remember what she liked best, and the ways to make her smile under their kiss. It was rare for him, but he found that he couldn't stop doing exactly that.

Molly pressed herself impossibly close to him. It was all so strange that it happened; that it was real. She trusted him though, as she always did. She had always believed in him and it took great effort for him to say anything of that sort. But he pushed out of his area to confess himself to her and it made her love him more.


End file.
